


Forgotten

by castielrisingabove



Series: Season 12 Divergence [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Canon Compliant, Destiel - Freeform, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Post 12x08, mechanic!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielrisingabove/pseuds/castielrisingabove
Summary: Dean Winchester doesn't remember anything that's happened in his life. A year ago, he woke up in a strange bunker with his mom and brother and with no recollection of his previous existence, Dean has started from scratch. Now, a year later, while working as a mechanic in Lebanon, Kansas, Dean runs across a mysterious figure injured in the middle of the highway. Who is this man, and how does he know Dean's name?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year y'all!

It had been just over year since the memory disturbance. At least, that’s what Dean and Sam had been calling it, though there was really no good explanation for waking up in a strange underground bunker with no memory of what happened. Dean had known his name, and Sammy’s, and Mom’s, but...that was it. He didn’t know what he’d been doing, or why he was there, or how any of it had happened. Hell, he pretty much forgot who he was.

They pieced some of it together. The strange bunker was something Mary had heard stories about in her childhood, like it was something that belonged to an ancestor. And they’d been living there for a while, if the clothes in the bedroom and the food in the refrigerator were any indication. Dean’s love for the ‘67 Impala came back quickly, as did Sam’s passion for salad, but they found that Dean and Sam were able to use technology in a way that Mary still struggled to pick up, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

Of course, they had bigger mysteries to unravel. For instance, there was no explanation for why Mom looked so...young. Unnaturally so, Dean would say if he was being honest, but he didn’t like the feeling he got in his gut when he admitted it. And Mary’s youthfulness was just one of many things that made Dean’s stomach tie up into knots.There was also the mystery room. Wandering the bunker had revealed a room Dean assumed to be his (if the leather jacket and family photo was any indication), Sam found his own room (piled with dusty books) and Mary with hers (honestly, the women’s clothing was a dead give-away).

The problem was, there was a fourth bedroom that appeared to have been occupied. An old blue tie hung in the closet, along with a sad looking trench coat, but aside from that, the room was empty. Mary tried to play it off as the belongings of an older inhabitant, but Dean couldn’t help but feel a pang of loss every time he walked past the room.

He avoided the room as much as possible.

When little could be made of what they were doing in a bunker together, or why they were there, the Winchesters finally concluded that perhaps the best course of action would be to move on with their lives. Both Mary and Sam left the bunker, Mary choosing a home not far from her childhood home in Kansas, and Sam deciding to go to college in Lawrence, deciding that a fresh start might be nice.

Dean had considered moving out, of course, but something drew him to the bunker. It was nice and roomy, for one, and he didn’t have to pay rent. Plus, the place was tricked out with so many interesting gadgets and secrets, it seemed a shame not to stay and explore. After all, where else could someone find a room with a war map, or a library filled with books on the occult, or a full on _dungeon_. And that wasn’t even getting started on the garage; Dean had nearly cried when he so many old vehicles were in such pristine condition.

It wasn’t even a question if he’d leave. Dean settled in, though he left Mary’s, Sam’s and the mysterious rooms untouched, and made the bunker his bona-fide home. He worked as a mechanic in the nearby town by day to pass the time. Like it or not, Dean always felt as though another reason he’d stayed behind was because he was waiting for something.

Or someone.

But whatever it was, it never appeared. A year passed in a mundane sort of slumber, though Dean never could fully relax. There was always a lingering sense of wrongness, like static on a radio that isn’t quite tuned into its station. Sometimes it was reasonable, but others it was nearly unbearable. Like the time, probably three months ago, Dean had serviced the car of the strangely familiar man. He wore a crisp black suit and spoke in a British accent and Dean could have sworn he knew him from somewhere. He’d asked, too, and the man gave him a strange look before muttering “Some promises can’t be broken,” before leaving.

That day had been particularly bad, as far as the static was concerned.

Still, that questionable sense was quieter some days, and as the Christmas holidays approached, Dean found it settling into a soft lull. The family was coming to his place for Christmas, after all, the bunker was big enough to house everyone comfortably, and he was actually excited to host. He’d strung lights along the hallways, lined the staircase with garlands and ribbons and had even bought an actual Christmas tree. It had taken some work getting it through the bunker door, but it now sat nicely in the living room, currently half-decorated.

And of course, Dean had been hard at work preparing for the sheer amount of food. He’d been slowly stocking his fridge and freezer with ingredients, everything from apples for pie filling, to a large pot-roast. He and his family were going to eat often and eat well, if Dean had anything to do with it.

Which was why Dean was on his way to Hastings after his shift let up at the shop. Hastings, the nearby town, had better choices in terms of food, and Dean wanted to be sure he had _everything_ in order for the big day. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt as though this was going to be his first real Christmas, and Dean was determined not to screw anything up. Tonight’s trip ended up with an extra bag of flour, more butter, potatoes, eggs, onions, and a quart of egg-nog for good measure.

He hummed along to the Christmas tunes on the radio as he zoomed down the now dark highway, more than ready to get home and out of the cold for good. Then the radio crackled. Dean nudged the dial on the Impala, frowning to himself. His Baby better not be acting up. But the crackle only grew worse. Dean groaned. It was hard to tell if the poor signal was due to his car or Kansas’ questionable radio services. When the static grew unbearable, Dean turned the radio off.

  
But the static continued.

It grew and grew, buzzing and screeching so loud that Dean slammed on the brakes, coming to a full stop in the middle of the highway. He fumbled with his buckle, trying with great difficulty to exit the car. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Dean practically fell out, tumbling into a pile of snow on the side of the road. The static, though, showed no signs of abating. Eyes streaming with tears, Dean pushed to his feet, finding quickly that his balance had given way as he fell against the hood of his car.

And that’s when he saw the body in the middle of the road.

The body, crumpled in an unnatural position, was silhouetted by the headlights of the car, and Dean could feel the static grow to a crescendo before cracking to an abrupt stop. It felt like his ears had popped, only a hundred times worse, and it was a miracle he’d managed to remain somewhat upright. When his head cleared, Dean stumbled towards the body.

It was a man. His dark hair was shaggy and matted with blood. He wore a suit, though it was so crisscrossed with tears and blood that Dean feared the worst. To his astonishment, Dean found himself assessing the situation with a frightening amount of accuracy. Judging by the angle it lay, one arm was broken. The man had suffered at least one stab wound, given the blood pooling around his lower half. His shoes were gone and his feet were riddled cuts and...third degree burns? Dean felt his heart-rate crashing in his ears. What on earth had happened to this guy?

Gently, trying to avoid any of the injuries, Dean grasped the man’s shoulder, trying to shake him awake. “Hey, buddy, you alright?” There was no response. Dean tried again, sliding his hand down towards the man’s mouth and nose to check for breathing. The man’s eyes opened, and even in the low light, Dean was amazed at how blue they were.

The first thing the man tried to do was push himself up to sitting, but Dean gently stopped him. Given his already unstable condition, Dean doubted exerting himself would do much good. “You know where you are? What happened to you?” Dean felt himself slide into babbling, so he bit his tongue to avoid it.

The man wheezed, it appeared to be difficult for him to say anything, and Dean found himself frantically shaking off his leather jacket to wrap around this guy. Shit. He hadn’t even stopped to consider the hypothermia. Dean was in the middle of trying to figure out if there was a way to tell how long the guy had been out in the cold when he heard the faintest of croaks.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean jerked away, staring at the man. Did he know him? He searched the lined face (nose broken, lip split, bruised and splattered with blood) for a sign, something to recognize him by, but aside from the clear signs of trauma, there was nothing familiar about it. Still, familiar or not, the man was clearly in need of medical attention.

Ignoring the fact the apparent stranger knew his name (what else could he do?) Dean pulled out his phone. It was strange, when he woke up a year ago, Dean seemed to know the importance of phones, but he couldn’t find his own. He’d had to replace it, as had Sammy. Still, this new phone worked just fine (despite the sense he was missing something). “Do you have any family I can call?” Dean asked.

The man shook his head slightly. “They...can’t be bothered.”

“Bullshit,” Dean gaped, “You’re half dead in the middle of the road.” He paused, wondering what sort of man this was to be abandoned by his family. Then again, maybe it was a reflection on the family, not the man. Regardless, _someone_ needed to take care of the guy. “Look, I’ll call an ambulance--”

The man grabbed his wrist, his grip surprisingly strong given the whole situation. “No hospital,” he gasped, blue eyes wide with panic, “Can’t...be found.” His hand was caked in blood and Dean found himself staring at the hand, as though the rest of the world would disappear. He wondered what that grip would feel like on his shoulder. An odd thought. An unfair thought, given the situation at hand. _Get a grip, Winchester._

“Dude, you need help. If nothing else, you need to be brought indoors, but there’s some serious first aid that also needs to happen soon…” As Dean spoke, he found himself plotting out how it would go. Carrying the man into the backseat Impala and wrapping the emergency blanket around him. Cranking the heat until they got home. There was room in the Bunker, not to mention he’d found a pretty extensive medical set on one of his explorations. He might not be able to do everything, but he could set the broken arm, stitch up the wounds…

“I...heal quickly,” the man said slowly, “I can...take care of myself.” He paused, eyes flicking down to the pool of blood, as though trying to think of more to say. A shadow crossed his face and he added, “S-sorry for the inconvenience.”

Something about that last phrase sent a streak of determination through Dean. He was bringing this man home. Dean knew all logic practically screamed reasons why this was a bad idea, and yet in his gut, Dean seemed to know this guy was safe. “Hold on,” Dean grunted, moving before he could convince himself otherwise. He wrapped an arm around the man, careful to avoid hitting the broken arm, and another around his legs and scooped him up.

The man was lighter than he should have been, Dean wondered if he’d lost a great deal of weight recently, and Dean had little trouble carrying him to the Impala. As he opened the back door, the man weakly tried to resist getting in the car.

“My blood. Your car. Too dirty,” he hissed, as though the thought of saying it in full sentences would be too much. Dean had no idea what to make of the reaction. The man was on death’s freakin’ doorstep and here he was, worrying he’d bloody up Dean’s backseat. And yeah, it was true Dean cared a lot about his baby, but how could the guy seriously think he’d just leave him? He wouldn’t abandon the man for the car! (Had the man been abandoned before? For stupid reasons? Dean hoped not.)

“Too bad,” Dean muttered, gently setting the man onto the seat. He closed the door quickly, no point letting more cold air into the car, and went back to check the trunk. The trunk of his car, now _that_ had been a weird experience, finding it full of a shit-load of weapons a year ago. Dean had removed them, hiding them away in the garage. Well. Not _all_ of them. There were two knives, one with strange symbols and a jagged blade, the other sleek and metallic, along with a rifle that he kept among the new belongings (jumper cables, blanket, tool box) just in case.

Thankfully, he just needed the blanket, which he pulled out quickly before slamming the trunk closed. Dean wrapped the man in the blanket, ignoring the croaks of “stop, Dean” as he continued. There was something about the situation the man didn’t like. And true, Dean kind of felt like he was kidnapping him, but what else was he supposed to do? The guy didn’t want to go to a hospital, but he was in such poor condition that he’d die before he found shelter.

Once the man was wrapped warmly, Dean got back behind the wheel, driving towards the Bunker. It was strange, Dean always had the sense he shouldn’t tell people about his home, and yet he had no qualms about driving a stranger there to stay indefinitely. The man stayed quiet the rest of the drive, only groaning when Dean hit a bump or a turn too hard. It was a hard balance to strike, trying to make haste to their destination while still ensuring the man was comfortable, but Dean made it.

When they got to the Bunker, Dean was forced to carry the man inside. In the light of his home, the injuries looked even worse. Almost without thinking, Dean brought the man to the mystery room, laying him on the bed before looking up to see the trench coat. Huh. There were several unused rooms, yet it felt right housing the man here.

Another look at the stark injuries and Dean set those thoughts aside, leaving the room to return with the first aid kit. “We really should get you to a doctor, you know,” Dean said as he worked to clean off the wounds, dipping gauze into a saline solution and wiping away the blood and dirt. The man hissed, blue eyes opening. Dean breathed a sigh of relief; at least the man was still alive.

As Dean worked, the man took in his surroundings, eyes widening when he saw the coat in the closet. “Why. Did. You. Bring. Me. Here?” he asked, voice low, each word spoken with great effort as Dean finished cleaning his face.

“It’s my place,” Dean replied, careful to not press hard on the bruises, “Off the grid, so you won’t be found.” With the face cleaned, he could see the worn creases and sunken cheeks of the man more clearly. Cleaning the blood did little to make the man look healthy. Next came the more awkward part. “I’m, uh, gonna need you to take off your shirt.”

The man frowned. “You can’t take me here,” he muttered, though he tried to unbutton his dress shirt with some effort. He winced as his broken arm shifted the wrong way, but still persisted in the removal of the shirt. Evidently he had no qualms about removing his clothing. Dean watched in shock for a moment, trying to understand _why_ the guy was so dead set about not staying in the bunker, before leaning forwards to help remove the shirt.

It was harder than Dean anticipated, the bloodied fabric was sticking to the skin, increasing the pain involved in removing it. “Why not here?” Dean asked, trying to distract the man as he guided the sleeve off the broken arm. It was only after asking the question that Dean realized he still hadn’t asked the man’s name.

The man sighed, his eyes squeezing shut as his broken arm slid out of the sleeve. Once it was removed, it took little effort for him to shrug the other sleeve off. The man’s chest was lean. Gaunt now, though it looked as though the man could have been well-defined in his prime. It was also riddled with cuts. Some half healed, some fresh, some scarred over. Worse, in some cases it looked as though the cuts were made in a deliberate design, words in some strange language Dean didn’t understand.

“Sorry,” the man grunted as he caught Dean staring, as though he was inconveniencing Dean simply by existing in the injured state. Dean’s heart panged with sorrow, a strangely deep and abiding feeling that shouldn’t have accompanied a man he did not know.

“Don’t be,” Dean replied, starting into cleaning off the man’s chest. First he’d clean, then he’d stitch the wounds shut. He hoped the pool of blood came from the superficial wounds and not something deeper. “What should I call you?”

The man was quiet for a moment, mulling over the question as Dean found a clean strip of gauze and more saline. “Some people call me Jimmy,” he said finally, though he held a guilty expression in his eyes.

And for good reason. This man did _not_ look like a Jimmy. Well, that wasn’t true. He sort of looked like he could have been a Jimmy. In a past life or something. But now? Nah. Didn’t look like a Jimmy. Looked like something fancy, something important, like Michael or Gabriel (nope. Definitely not those exact names. Something similar, though). The whine of static built up again and it took everything in him to force it away. Dean frowned, trying to make sense of his entirely too confusing train of thought, but eventually gave up. Jimmy it was, apparently.

“Well, Jimmy,” Dean said as he added another blood soaked gauze to the horrifying pile, “If you won’t go to the hospital, you’ll have to stay here. At least for a couple days.”

“Not possible.”

“It _is_ possible,” Dean replied through gritted teeth, “And what’s more, it’s necessary. You’re staying until you’re better. End of story. Unless you’ve got family you can call.”

“I don’t. Not anymore.”

“Then here you’ll stay.”

There was a tense silence between them as Dean finished cleaning the man’s chest and back. This was _not_ how he’d expected to spend one of the few nights alone left in the year and he certainly hadn’t anticipated having a complete stranger stay during Christmas. What kind of person didn’t have anywhere to go during Christmas, anyway? For that matter, what kind of person didn’t want to stay at the one place he seemed to be welcome?

“My staying here is dangerous, Dean,” Jimmy said finally as Dean turned his back to retrieve a needle and thread. He dipped the needle in alcohol to remove the germs, pausing at the man’s words.

“You know my name. How?” Dean held the needle up to signal the fact he was going to use it. Jimmy replied with an almost imperceptible nod. With the go-ahead, Dean began his first set of stitches. The man winced, but aside from that remained stoic.

“No matter what lie I fabricate, you will doubt,” Jimmy replied with a surprising amount of candor given the situation, “So trust me when I tell you that you’re better off with me gone.”

“But--”

“You will come to the same conclusion again soon enough,” Jimmy sighed, and refused to speak as Dean continued to stitch his wounds closed. It took well over an hour to carefully sew the jagged slices shut, some piercing entirely too deep for comfort, and Dean had to swallow the overwhelming amount of worry felt towards this utterly baffling stranger. In a way, it helped the man wasn’t talking, this whole experience was already too much for comfort.

With care, Dean set the broken arm, incredibly thankful the first aid kit came equipped with a sling. He couldn’t help but think there had to be an explanation for it, but like every other unexplainable thing in his life, Dean found it often better to roll with the gaps instead of try to puzzle out an explanation.

Next came the legs. Dean felt a blush creep up his neck as he requested the man remove his pants, as though this was an experience destined for another time and place. (Why on earth that thought would even cross his mind was unknown.) Jimmy obliged, and Dean helped to clean and bandage them, though the wounds on his legs were far less extensive as those on his upper body.

The feet, however, were problematic, burned so badly Dean could scarcely believe it. What sort of situation was Jimmy in? He rummaged through the first aid kit to find antibiotic ointment, applying it to the soles of his feet with the sort of care he reserved for special situations. This guy was in bad shape, but he wouldn’t be forever if Dean had anything to do with it. Once the ointment was applied, Dean carefully wrapped the feet in loose gauze.

“You’re, uh, gonna have to stay off your feet until they’re healed,” Dean said apologetically. “Stay in bed or, uh, I dunno, I could get Sam to get you a wheelchair or something.”

“Sam?”

“My brother,” Dean shrugged, “Him and my mom are comin’ out in a few days for Christmas and all.”

Jimmy scowled. “This is not good, Dean. You need to get rid of me.”

“Can it, buddy,” Dean snapped, “You’re staying here until you’re better. End of discussion.” Without waiting for a reply, Dean left the room, wandering next door to his own room. He rummaged through his dresser drawers, pulling out a pair of sweats that weren’t completely ratty, as well as a soft blue t-shirt. He returned to Jimmy’s room and tossed them onto the bed.

“You’ll want these,” he said, “It gets cold here.”

Jimmy stared at the garments like they were gifts from Heaven above, rubbing the shirt with his thumb. “You are too kind,” he croaked finally, blue eyes looking up to meet Dean’s. Dean melted under the puppy dog expression, sitting on the bed next to Jimmy.

“Not kind enough,” he sighed. “If you knew me before, you’d know that.”

There was a wild look of alarm in Jimmy’s face. “Why do you think I knew you before?”

Dean chuckled. “Dude. I’ve got like...thirty years of memory totally unaccounted for. And you knew my name, which is kinda a giveaway. I don’t know what our story was, though I assume it wasn’t good given how much you don’t want to stay here.”

Jimmy clenched his fist, staring pointedly at his knees. “Not bad. Never bad,” he said, though to reassure Dean or himself, Dean wasn’t sure. He smoothed the shirt on his lap, trembling calloused fingers running along the seams as though the motion would help.

Truth be told, Dean had no idea what to make of the situation, so he decided he’d be most useful finding something for the man to eat. Thankfully, the kitchen was overly stocked in preparation for the coming festivities, so there was plenty to choose from. He settled on a tomato soup, dumping the contents into a microwaveable bowl and adding a few choice spices to improve upon the taste.

While the bowl was microwaving, he set a kettle on the stove to boil, withdrawing some tea from the back of a cupboard. The tea was Sammy’s thing, but Dean kept it around, in part to be a good host and in part because he didn’t mind it. He rummaged through the box, settling with a lemon tea. The microwave beeped and Dean let the soup, currently far too hot, cool inside while he tracked down a sturdy yellow mug and a small jar of honey for the tea. Jimmy, Dean was sure, would appreciate the honey. Once the kettle started whistling, Dean poured the hot water over the tea bag, allowing it to seep while he tracked down a tray for everything. Once it was settled, Dean carried the tray to Jimmy’s room.

Jimmy, by now, had changed into the makeshift pajamas. With everything taken care of, he looked better than he did initially. True, his face was still pale and gaunt, but there was a hope in his eyes, albeit one masked with wariness. He watched silently as Dean set the tray on a nearby nightstand.

“I brought food,” Dean said, a little unnecessarily. “Tomato soup and some tea, I figured you could use a lighter meal given everything. Um.” So much of this felt strange. Out of place. Dean had been struck with this sensation throughout the year, but it usually faded when he’d buried himself into something ordinary. This, well, this was the exact opposite of ordinary. It was like the seven-layer dip of unordinary.

“There’s salt for the soup and honey for the tea. If you like honey, that is. I thought you would but also--”

“I love honey, Dean,” Jimmy said simply, and for the first time that night, Dean saw the faintest hints of a smile cross Jimmy’s face as he dipped his finger into the jar to taste the sticky sweet goodness.

Certain his work was done, Dean backed slowly towards the door, keeping his eyes trained on Jimmy. His hair was still rumpled, he’d just have to sleep with it dirty for the night, dark tufts sticking out in all directions. The clothes he’d borrowed from Dean fit, though the hems of the pants were just a little too long. It was endearing. So, it seemed, was Jimmy’s style of eating, as he poked his finger into both the soup and the tea to taste test both before actually starting to eat.

Once it was well and clear that Jimmy was settled in, Dean murmured a quiet “see you in the morning,” before closing the door. As he made his way to his own bedroom, Dean couldn’t help but feel as though something was very right. Despite having no idea who Jimmy was, Dean liked his company. So much so that his final thought before falling asleep that night was that he was thrilled Jimmy would finally be able to spend the holidays with them.

 

\----

 

That night, Dean had the most vivid nightmare he could remember. He was somewhere dark and hot. It reeked of sulfur and urine; screams pierced the air in a never-ending wail that rang out like a siren. His hands were wet, sticky, even, and Dean looked down to find he was covered in blood. Whether his own or someone elses’, Dean wasn’t sure. A man watched him nearby, eyes entirely white. Pure evil, Dean knew, even if he had no other grasp on the situation.

His heart hammered in his chest, the need to _get out_ permeating through his entire being but there was nowhere to run. Dean tried to scream too, but blood poured into his mouth (from where, he had no idea), the taste metallic, choking the words from his lips. He was trapped. He was _trapped._

A bright light, however, forced him to pause. Looking up, Dean saw what could only be described as an angel -- a man with striking black wings (seriously, those things were freaking _huge_ ) descending from the sky. Unlike Dean, the man seemed clean, pure. Frantically, Dean tried to wipe the blood from his mouth, but unfortunately it seemed to merely spill onto his hands and chest.

This thing, this guy...this was his ticket out of here and he couldn’t even manage to look worthy of saving. Torn between reaching for the angel and hiding away, Dean stood frozen as the angel descended, dropping to a knee as the angel’s feet touched ground. A gentle hand guided his chin up and Dean was shocked to see--

\--Jimmy?

The angel looked just like him. Yeah, healthier and more put together, but that was definitely Jimmy. His dark hair stuck up, his blue eyes blazed and, despite being in far better condition, he sported dark circles under his eyes. “I am here to raise you from Perdition,” Jimmy said, his voice a gravelly roar. Then, with seemingly no care for his own purity or Dean’s apparent filthiness, the angel reached out, grasping Dean’s shoulder with one hand and wrapping his arm around Dean’s waist. He couldn’t remember a time he’d felt more warm and safe.

“Jimmy,” he whispered as he pressed his face into the robe of the angel.

“Not quite, Dean,” the familiar deep voice replied.

Dean awoke feeling comforted and at peace, which lasted all of about two seconds before he realized Jimmy was staring at him, mere inches from his face. Startled, Dean jerked away, rolling off the bed in a tangled heap of limbs and sheets. “What the hell, man?” he shouted, though his voice was muffled by the pillow he’d landed face first on.

“I apologize,” Jimmy said from the other side of the bed, “You were screaming and I…” he took a deep breath, as though trying to compose himself, “...I wanted to ensure you were okay.” It felt like there was something else to Jimmy’s statement, but Dean was too focused on the fact he’d just woken up face to face with a stranger in his own bedroom to really care.

With some care, he extricated himself from the mass of blankets, squinting in the darkness to locate Jimmy. “What time is it anyway?” Dean grumbled, catching sight of a large mass to the left of his bed as he sat down on the right edge.

“Two thirty, if your bedside clock is to be trusted,” Jimmy replied, groaning in pain.

Right. Dean had entirely forgotten that Jimmy was injured. Admittedly, he was still trying to get over that weird-ass dream, which was so realistic Dean swore he could still smell a faint whiff of sulfur. “Dude, you aren’t supposed to be walking.”

“I know. Your screams seemed urgent.”

Dean sighed. For a brief moment, he was tempted to invite Jimmy to share his bed for the remainder of the night, but as quickly as the idea entered his mind, he shoved it away. There was no way in hell he was letting a guy, a stranger, no less, into his bed. Still. Jimmy shouldn’t be walking…

“I’m going to carry you back into bed, okay?”

“Dean, I can walk--”

“Not this again,” Dean grunted, pushing himself to standing and making his way across the room to where Jimmy stood. His eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness to enable him to make his way to Jimmy’s side. Careful of the broken arm, Dean slung Jimmy into his arms. The man was lighter than he’d anticipated, but he was warm. He smelled bad, but that was to be expected given he’d been laying in his own blood in the middle of the highway six hours earlier.

Jimmy relaxed in his arms, though, and Dean was hard pressed to let him go once they reached Jimmy’s bed. He did, finally, though Jimmy said nothing about the awkward position. (Was it really awkward? It felt right.) “Right,” Dean muttered as he tucked Jimmy in place, “No more getting out of bed till morning, ‘kay?”

“Okay, Dean,” Jimmy mumbled sleepily.

Reassured Jimmy wouldn’t injure his feet further, Dean nodded and left the room. “Night...Jimmy.” Dean frowned, and spent his last moments before sleep wondering why he’d been about to say a different name. Something that started with a C…

 

\---

 

Jimmy fit strangely well into Dean’s daily routine. Dean would check on him, help him to the bathroom, then carry him into the kitchen. Honestly, Dean would have been more than happy to just bring Jimmy food on a tray, but Jimmy insisted otherwise. They’d eat breakfast together, though Jimmy was usually silent, and then Dean would go to work.

The first day he was gone, Jimmy had cleaned the kitchen in Dean’s absence. When it seemed clear there was no convincing Jimmy to stay put, Dean bought a used wheelchair to help him get around. Jimmy smiled and thanked Dean, promising to do more to ‘earn his keep.’

Dean didn’t particularly like this plan, but there was no stopping Jimmy.

The better part of the routine was at night. Jimmy helped with the copious decorations. From the looks of it, Jimmy had never decorated anything before and Dean had a great time teaching the guy how to properly hang garlands and candy canes and even mistletoe.

“Is this for warding against monsters?” Jimmy asked, cocking his head with interest as he stared up at the mistletoe on the doorway.

Dean laughed. “Nah, it’s a holiday tradition. You hang it up and if two people are under it at the same time, they have to kiss.”

Jimmy nodded seriously, blue eyes leaving the mistletoe leaves to stare at Dean. “So...since we are both under the mistletoe…”

That’s about the time Dean’s brain short circuited. There was a rush of thoughts all at once. Jimmy was a stranger. No, wait, Jimmy said he knew Dean, so he wasn’t a stranger...but Dean didn’t kiss guys, did he? Had he? He hadn’t kissed anyone since waking up. Maybe he kissed Jimmy. He definitely wanted to kiss Cas.

_Wait. Who the hell was Cas?_

The thoughts and growing static filled Dean’s mind, threatening, it seemed, to spill out into the real world when all at once, everything stilled. Dean could feel Jimmy’s chapped lips against his fingertips, like lightning.

“Does that count?” Jimmy asked, setting Dean’s hand down as he looked up to him from his wheelchair.

Count? Dean opened and closed his mouth, trying and failing to come up with a good response. “Great,” he finally squeaked, knowing full well any answer was likely better than no answer at all. Thankfully, that seemed to be enough to appease Jimmy, who wheeled off, lap full of wreaths, to continue decorating.

Yeah, having Jimmy around was hella awesome.

 

\---

 

Christmas Eve rolled around faster than Dean had anticipated. Jimmy was recovering at an astonishingly fast rate, they’d already removed many of the stitches and his feet were healed enough that he could walk. Still, despite the progressing recovery, Jimmy showed no signs of wanting to leave...and Dean definitely didn’t push the issue.

He felt more at home with Jimmy around than ever before. Jimmy helped with meals (crucial word is _helped_ , because Jimmy alone in the kitchen meant disaster), aided in cleaning and was more than happy to kick back with Dean at the end of the evening to watch a movie. Apparently Jimmy hadn’t seen many movies, so Dean had slowly been introducing the classics. And if Jimmy sat closer than was technically normal? Well, Dean wasn’t going to tell him otherwise.

The only thing that threw Dean for a loop was the memory of a mysterious Cas. Dean knew nothing about the person aside from the name and the fact they felt important. Like he should be looking for Cas. But every glance at Jimmy made Dean want to forget all about this mysterious Cas and spend his time with Jimmy instead.

They’d been getting along so well that Dean completely forgot to prep Jimmy for meeting his family. The two were in the kitchen, Jimmy peeling potatoes with a look of intense concentration as Dean mixed spices into the ground beef for a Shepherd’s pie, when Sam and Mary entered. Apparently they’d let themselves in.

“We’re here!” Mary exclaimed, causing Jimmy’s head to snap up to stare. Dean stood frozen, taking in the sight of his beloved family getting an eyeful of a man (who still had fading bruises on his face) they had never seen before. Jimmy just stared, fear plastered on his face as he gripped the potato peeler a little tighter.

Both Mary and Sam looked good. Sam’s hair had grown, but his style had improved from the flannels they found in his closet, if the button up shirt and sweater combo was any indication. His eyes sparkled, the dark circles were gone and he smiled easily. Mary’s changes were similar. She wore a pretty blouse under a dark fitted peacoat; Mary had adapted to her new life with ease.

After an awkward pause staring at Jimmy, Mary made her way to hug Dean. Sam, however, still stared, brow pinching together in a sort of puppy-like confusion. Jimmy watched him warily, no doubt waiting to see what Sam’s reaction was. “You look familiar…” Sam said softly, and Jimmy’s eyes widened with fear.

Dean had to step in. Letting go of his mom, he pecked her cheek and made his way over to Jimmy’s side. “Mom, Sammy, this is Jimmy. He doesn’t have anywhere to be on Christmas, so I decided he could stay with me.”

His family stared. Dean set a reassuring hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and squeezed. Jimmy reached up to rest a hand on Dean’s. Sam’s eyes bugged out at the sight. Silence continued, until finally Mary piped up, “Any friend of Dean’s is a friend of ours,” she said warmly, extending a hand for Jimmy to shake. He did so, holding out his hand for Sam to shake as well, but to everyone’s surprise, Sam scooped him into a tight hug.

“I, uh,” Sam stammered, “I do this with everyone.”

Dean highly doubted it. If Jimmy really _was_ from Dean’s past, he was also probably from Sam’s. And if Sam’s initial reaction is to hug him, well….Dean’s smile grew. Jimmy must have been wrong about their past together being bad. Sam let go, patting Jimmy’s shoulder awkwardly before saying, “What’s for dinner?”

Tension broken, everyone laughed. “Shepherd’s pie,” Dean said easily, “It _was_ supposed to be ready to eat when you showed up, but that wasn’t accounting for you guys showing up an hour and a half early.”

Sam shrugged, a guilty smile on his face. “We wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, surprise! You get to help chop carrots.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“Language!” Mary burst out, but they were all grinning and Jimmy couldn’t help but crack a hesitant grin as well, which of course made Dean sling an arm around Jimmy. Mary and Sam gave him a strange look, but that was all, as Mary and Sam searched for a cutting board and knife.

The kitchen was full of joyous chaos that night. Dean and Sam started a war tossing bits of carrot at each other. Mary claimed to be above the mix, but dumped a handful of carrot shreddings on Dean while Sam had him distracted. Sam talked about school, the grades he was getting, the girls he was dating. Mary talked about the book club she joined, followed by the krav maga classes she was taking. Dean talked about his life as a mechanic and the interesting secrets he’d found hidden in the Bunker.

Jimmy didn’t talk much, but he listened intently to everything and once again, Dean was filled with the sense that Jimmy belonged with them. Even if he didn’t know it yet.

The conversation carried over easily into dinner, until at one point Sam piped up, “Hey, Cas, you mind passing the salt?”

Jimmy’s fork clattered to the floor as he gaped at Sam, jaw hanging slightly open.

Realizing his mistake, Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I mean. Uh. Cas. Shit! No, sorry, Jimmy. I don’t know how I could have thought it was...y’know what, I’m gonna get you a new fork.” Sam pushed out of his chair, the legs squeaking against the floor as he pounded out of the dining room to retrieve a new fork.

 _Cas_.

Sam had done it too. Used that weird name in the context of Jimmy. Could it be Jimmy knew Cas? Could it be Jimmy _was_ Cas? Dean’s stomach churned, a headache creeping in as he stared at Cas. _Cas_ . It was like a puzzle piece had locked into place and Dean could no longer in good conscience, refer to him as Jimmy. He still had no idea who Cas _was_ , but he knew he wasn’t Jimmy.

Cas looked fairly sick, any of the color he’d been gaining back in his cheeks was totally gone. His bruises stood out against the pale skin and Dean was keenly aware Cas was the only one of them who sported significant dark circles. Worse, Cas’ eyes were rimmed slightly red, as though he was trying to keep tears from falling.

“I have to go,” Cas burst out gruffly, pushing over his chair in his haste to leave the dining room. Mary watched the whole thing with no small amount of confusion. Sam was still out of the room, so Dean did not get to see his reaction as he stood up and chased Cas down the hall.

“Cas, wait!” Dean called out as Cas pushed his way into his bedroom. _His_ bedroom. No wonder Dean had put him in that room when they first met.

Sure enough, when Dean rounded the corner into Cas’ room, he saw him tugging the old trench coat over the outfit he’d borrowed from Dean that day (green button up and jeans). Cas’ hands were shaking as he tried to button the coat, clearly concerned about the chill that awaited him outside. When he caught sight of Dean, Cas shook his head. “I have to go,” he said again.

“You always say that,” Dean croaked, voice oddly wobbly as he made his way closer. Gently, he helped Cas button the coat, though he had no intention of letting Cas leave. “Don’t go this time.”

“I _have_ to,” Cas insisted, “You’re not _safe_.”

Dean felt a splash of water on his hands and looked up to see another tear spilling from the corner of Cas’ eyes. Quietly, Dean reached up to brush it away with his thumb, mindful of the bruises. “Why am I not safe?”

Cas looked at Dean briefly before looking away. At the ceiling. The dresser. The floor. Anything but Dean as he chewed the inside of his cheek. “I did what I had to so you could be saved.”

Dean stifled a gasp. “Is this about my memory.”

“A necessary precaution,” Cas replied apologetically. “Otherwise...you would have come looking for me.”

Another puzzle piece slotted into place as Dean realized the injuries Cas had sustained came from the man giving himself up entirely to save Dean, and likely Sam and Mary. All those injuries were because of Dean. Unexpected tears welled in Dean’s eyes and he shook his head to try and dash them. “You’re here now. Stay.”

“I. Can’t.” Cas enunciated the words slowly and deliberately, trying to inject a greater meaning into such common words, but Dean was having none of it.

Impulsively, he crashed his lips against Cas’, kissing away the salty tears that had fallen. He gripped Cas’ jacket tight with one hand, weaving his fingers into Cas’ hair with the other, holding Cas as though the very act would keep Cas in place. To his surprise, Cas didn’t move. He kissed back. “Dean,” Cas whimpered, although there was no telling whether or not he was trying to argue his point or ask for more.

“Don’t go,” Dean whispered against Cas’ lips, “For the first time in a year, things felt right with you here.”

“You’d be hunted,” Cas replied, pressing their foreheads together in a gesture that felt oddly more intimate than the kiss itself, “Your normalcy, likely even the normalcy of your mother and brother, would be shattered.”

“I don’t care,” Dean sighed, “ _They_ won’t care.” And it was true. Some sense deep inside Dean affirmed it, that Mary and Sam would not only embrace their strange new circumstances, but also embrace Cas as a part of the family. “Stay.”

And maybe it was luck, or perhaps a Christmas miracle, but Cas actually smiled. “Okay.”

  
There was still a lot they didn’t know, Dean knew as he walked with Cas hand-in-hand to the dining room. But as he introduced Cas to the family for real, as Sam joked about Cas being his boyfriend and Cas smiling brighter than Dean had ever seen, well, Dean knew one thing for certain. They would get through it. They were meant to.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if it's clear (or if I'll write anymore in this 'verse to clear it up) but the idea was that Castiel instigated a trade with the Men of Letters: the life of an angel in exchange for breaking Sam and Dean out. And of course, the MoL torture Cas to figure out his abilities....
> 
> Likes and comments are always welcome! And you can check me out on on Tumblr: castielsunshinegrace.tumblr.com


End file.
